


empty your sadness, like you're dumping your purse on my bedroom floor

by demistories



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7409302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demistories/pseuds/demistories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chloé slams the door behind her. She yanks her sunglasses from the top of her head and throws them as hard as they can. She doesn’t see them hit the wall and break, she's too busy typing rapidly on her phone, but she hears it. She types and she types and she types and then her vision goes blurry and she deletes it and throws her phone at the carpet because what’s the point. </p><p>//</p><p>Adrien wishes he could explain it. He wishes he could explain why he’s pacing around his room, why his heart is beating so rapidly, why there’s this pressure in his chest that he just can’t get rid of. </p><p>But he can’t. He never can. It’s just there— taunting him, teasing him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	empty your sadness, like you're dumping your purse on my bedroom floor

**Author's Note:**

> tw: anxiety/panic attacks and side effects and tendencies that come along with those

Chloé slams the door behind her. She yanks her sunglasses from the top of her head and throws them as hard as they can. She doesn’t see them hit the wall and break, she's too busy typing rapidly on her phone, but she hears them fall to the floor. She types and she types and she types and then her vision goes blurry and she deletes everything and throws her phone at the carpet because what’s the  _ point _ .    
  
What’s the point?   
  
She slumps against the wall and slides down to the floor, hating how crying makes her feel. Hating the petty jealousy that had bubbled within her when she saw how  _ happy _ Sabrina was. The bitterness she felt whenever Alya and Marinette exchanged a knowing look. The anger that burned when Rose and Juleka shared an inside joke.    
  
Can’t she part of that just  _ once _ ?    
  
Just once.    
  
That’s all she asks.    


* * *

Adrien wishes he could explain it. He wishes he could explain why he’s pacing around his room, why his heart is beating so rapidly, why there’s this pressure in his chest that he just can’t get rid of.    
  
But he can’t. He never can. It’s just  _ there _ — taunting him, teasing him.    
  
Plagg has given multiple suggestions. He knows Plagg is worried, as nonchalant as he’s acting about the whole thing. Adrien thinks Plagg is about ten minutes away from forcing him to transform and run around as Chat Noir. Admittedly, it does help. But Adrien wants to be  _ better than that _ . He wants to do this himself. He wants to stop this on his own and—   
  
He ruffles his hair again and again. If only he could just stop  _ pacing _ .    
  
And it doesn’t help that his phone has been vibrating nonstop. He loves his friends — he can’t believe he  _ has friends _ , he doesn’t deserve  _ friends _ — but he can’t  _ deal _ with this right now. Or ever.    
  
He grabs his phone, ready to turn it off and  _ shut them up _ when a single message in a flood of texts catches his eye.    
  
**From: Chlo** **  
** **To: Adri ❤︎❤︎  
**      Code Black   
  
Adrien is already out of the room, a protesting Plagg shoved in his pocket.     


* * *

He doesn’t knock. Code Blacks don’t require manners. They require immediate action. Because while Code Red means pain that can be soothed by ice cream and laughter, Code Black means that someone needs to be  _ there _ . There to hold a hand tight and say “I’m right here and don’t you dare think I’m leaving you.” Code Blacks are as high as they go, because they had been eleven and terrified at the thought that there’d ever be anywhere further  _ to _ go. 

Adrien doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t question why her sunglasses are shattered on the floor, why her lights are still off, why she’s curled up on the rug with her phone clenched in her hand. He just sits down next to her and takes her free hand in his own. His grip is loose so she can get out of it if she wants to. She would never want to.

Chloé doesn’t even bother pretending not to notice him bouncing his leg. “You too?” she asks softly. 

Adrien forces a laugh and runs his hand through his hair. “When am I not?”

“Relatable,” she mumbles. She pulls herself up off of her side and leans against Adrien instead. “I hate myself,” she says after a minute. Adrien just hums in response, waiting for her to continue and bouncing his leg. “Oh my god what's  _ wrong with me?! _ ”

Adrien tightens his grip on her hand as she goes to drag it through her hair, stopping her from liking yanking some of it out.

“Careful,” he says lightly, “you’ll mess up your hair.”

Chloé just groans and tips her head back toward the ceiling. “I'm so bitter and jealous and  _ angry _ and everyone has friends who  _ like them _ and I’m just  _ here _ and I—” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I hate myself for it.”

* * *

The swirling pit of anxiety in Adrien’s stomach is just getting bigger and bigger. But he lets Chloé vent because she needs to. 

“I hate myself too,” he manages to say. 

“Any good reason?” Chloé asks. She knows the answer, it's always the same. But it's nice to have routine in this mess of emotions. 

“Why not?” It feels weird to swallow and there's a pressure building in the back of his head. The first few times he’d said that Chloé had listed reasons why he shouldn't hate himself. He’d listed reasons why she shouldn’t hate herself. They both knew those lists were there. There was just no longer any point of repeating them. 

“Fair enough,” she murmurs. 

He’s standing at the edge of this pit of anxiety, about to fall in. A never ending spiral of nausea and worry and headaches and panic attacks and—

“Remember to breathe, Adri,” Chloé says. 

Adrien exhales and something clicks into place. He gasps for air and he’d  _ had  _ to have been breathing? Right? Because breathing is a subconscious action and you’re not supposed to  _ think _ about it you’re just supposed to  _ do it _ because your body is supposed to want to live not suffocate to death because you can’t remember to do basic body functions like—

Chloé takes his face in her hands and turns it to make him look at her. “Now you're breathing too much.”

He breathes with her, watching the exaggerated rise and fall of her shoulders. He feels lightheaded, a little dizzy. He can’t tell if that’s the lack of breathing and then deep breaths or the anxiety. 

Chloé’s makeup is smudged in ways that she hates. Her eyes are watery and red and her hair is disheveled. 

“Sorry.” 

She furrows her eyebrows. “Nope. No apologizing for things that you have no reason to be sorry for.” 

Adrien ducks his head. “I’m sorry.” 

Chloé sighs and hugs him tight. “I know.” 

* * *

Chloé rests her chin in her hands as Adrien makes another cup of tea. It’s his third cup in the past hour, but she’s not going to stop him. She knows that the process of it is calming to him and that having a hot drink in hand provides some sort of comfort. She, on the other hand, ate most of a pint of cookie dough ice cream. 

She doesn’t know when exactly it became night. They sat on the floor for an undetermined amount of time, the room getting darker and darker around them. By the time either of them felt okay enough to move, the stars were out. 

Chloé hardly ever uses this kitchen anymore. It’s a tiny one. Private, only for her, her father, and their personal staff to use. Even then, it’s not like she usually spends  _ time _ in it. The last time she can actually remember spending this much time in here was years ago. But it’s small and cozy and warm, and it fills a gap that both she and Adrien have in them where home is supposed to be. 

Adrien stirs a probably unhealthy amount of honey into his tea. 

“I’m sorry about calling a Code Black.” 

He doesn’t look up, he just lifts his mug and blows over the top of it. “I needed it. We both did.”

“Hm.” Chloé glances to the door. 

“Besides. You aren’t supposed to apologize for things you have no reason to be sorry for. This is one of them.” Adrien puts down his mug. He puts his hand down on the table in front of her. 

Chloé looks at it for a long moment before putting her hand in his and squeezing tightly. She chews on her lip as she tries to hold back tears. Because she thought she’d cried herself out earlier but she was wrong. She’d cried out all her anger and now all she has is emptiness.

Emptiness and loneliness and this weird echoing inside her that makes her feel…broken. 

“I’m a mess,” she says, glaring down at her lap. 

Adrien just shrugs. “We both are.” She looks up to see a half smile on his face. “Messes together for life, remember?” 

Chloé scoffs and rolls her eyes. Of course she remembers. She remembers all their weird little things from when they were growing up. She remembers them and she clings to them and she  _ prays _ that Adrien doesn’t forget. She panics and sends him code words and hopes he still understands what they mean. 

Adrien pulls his hand away from hers to prop his arm up by the elbow, offering him her pinky finger. 

She wraps her pinky finger around his with a shaky smile. “Ruining our lives one tub of ice cream at a time.” 


End file.
